


Stars and Moons

by i_kinda_like_writing



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Stealing, World War II, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:11:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5060620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_kinda_like_writing/pseuds/i_kinda_like_writing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Where did Captain America learn to steal a car?”<br/>“Nazi Germany. And we’re borrowing. Take your feet off the dash.”</p><p>*~*~*</p><p>On a hot day in Germany during World War 2, the Howling Commandos, and more specifically Bucky, teach Steve how to steal a car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars and Moons

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I'm really into taking one liners from the movies and turning them into fics, huh? This one was supposed to be really funny and silly but it turned into angst at the end. So.  
> Anyway, the title is from an obscure song by Built To Spill called "Car" (I totally didn't type car lyrics into Google and hope for the best).  
> Enjoy :)

_“Where did Captain America learn to steal a car?”_

_“Nazi Germany. And we’re borrowing. Take your feet off the dash.”_

 

*~*~*

 

It’s fucking hot. Some might think the “fucking” was unnecessary, equate it to a soldier’s typical vocabulary, but they would be wrong. It is so hot that no other adjective is able to convey just how annoying and melting this particular heat is. Burning just doesn’t fit; it’s not so much a burn as a slow kind of cook, like being heated in a pot sluggishly as the heat seeps into every inch of your person until you’re ready to be eaten. Boiling is fairly accurate, but it doesn’t particularly express how pissed off Bucky is about the weather.

So fucking it is. Smoking probably doesn’t help, but he’s too pissed to put out the cigarette. Not that the smoke is actually helping; like alcohol, nicotine doesn’t seem to do its job anymore and like a real man, Bucky is resolutely ignoring that fact and hoping it goes away. The smoke’s halfway done and Bucky’s about a third ways through his mental list of cuss words trying to find one that applies to the downright evil person whose idea it was to send them out into the middle of a field in July when he hears suspiciously loud cheers coming from about fifty feet away.

Stomping out the smoke and pausing at a word that would’ve had his mouth filled with soap had he said it in front of his Ma, Bucky stands from his slumped position against a rock and makes his way towards the noise. The other Howlies had been just as bored as Bucky, but a touch less lazy, because they decided to look around for something to do. Bucky was half-hoping they’d find some sort of lake they could all go swimming in but he would also be extremely amused if they came back with rashes due to some foreign plant they weren’t aware of. Judging by the positive tone to the cheers and the absence of splashing water, Bucky is guessing neither of his hopes were fulfilled.

What he does find is a bunch of dirty, smelly soldiers whooping and jumping as they circle what looks to be a piece of crap pick-up truck. The color is a rusting light blue, the kind of truck that screams stereotypical country side. Bucky can easily imagine a chicken coop in the bed of the truck or bales of hay for the fields or something. Give him a break with his lack of country imagination; he’s a city boy.

“Aw man!” Jim calls from the bed of the truck. His ass is in the air, his head pressed down to the floor, apparently looking for something. “There aren’t any keys.”

Frenchie says something in his native tongue even though he understands English and speaks it pretty well by now. He’s just a dick so he pretends like he can’t. Gabe’s eyebrows go up as he replies in kind. Frenchie says something else and they both laugh.

“Frenchie says he can get it going.” Gabe translates.

“How does he propose we do that?” Monty seems to be the only one not jumping out of his socks in excitement. Well, he might be, it’s hard to tell with the British.

“He’s got wiring expertise.” Gabe says after listening to Frenchie talk for a few seconds.

“We can’t get to the wires if we can’t even get into the car.” Dum Dum points out. The windows are rolled up and the doors seem to be locked. Jim perks up.

“I can take care of that. Anyone got a wire?” Bucky, extremely amused by the situation clearly unfolding in front of him, speaks up.

“Steve’s got one in his uniform belt.” He only knows this because the punk never stops complaining that the wire’s digging into his side. Yeah Stevie, like a tiny wire is the biggest flaw in your uniform. Maybe it’s the flashy colors that basically light him up like a marquee sign the second he runs into battle. But hey, that’s just Bucky’s opinion.

“Cap!” The boys chorus. Steve, who’s actually been patrolling the 50 by 50 foot piece of land like they were meant to be doing, bless his heart, walks over to them and regards them with wide, expectant eyes.

“Yeah?” Bucky smirks, not missing his chance.

“The boys want you to strip for ‘um.” The ridiculous whoops of laughter from behind him accompany the climb of a pinkish-red blush up Steve’s neck and into the tops of his cheeks. He takes a few tentative steps closer.

“What do you need?” He asks, wary as he looks from one soldier to another.

“We need the wire from your uniform’s belt. Gotta jimmy open the door.” Jim gestures to the broken down truck. Steve puts on his best “Captain America’s disappointed in you” frown and fixes them all with a look.

“Are you all tryna steal a car?” They all nod gleefully.

“Yeah, wanna learn?” Dugan asks. Steve sighs like they’re all hopeless but there’s a skip in his step as he walks over to watch. After sliding out the irritating wire from his belt, Steve hands it over to Jim who begins to shove it in between the window and the door.

“The trick is the wrist movement,” Jim says, his face screwed up in concentration.

“We all know your wrist gets enough practice.” Dum Dum bellows out through a laugh. Jim spares him a second of a dirty look before a satisfying click breaks it.

“Ha!” He pulls out the wire and opens the door. “I did it!” A round of appreciative whoops accompanies the smug grin on his face. Next it’s Frenchie’s turn. He struts up to the truck like he’s hot shit and spends his next half hour explaining which wires to cross, being kind enough to even use English.

Everyone has a go, even Cap. Bucky’s the best at it (he was always a quick learner) and sadly, Steve fails miserably. His hands are so much bigger now, even though they’ve still got long, artist’s fingers, and it’s hard for him to keep all the wires straight. The punk can notice an enemy from 200 feet away through snow covered forests but for the life of him, he can’t tell two wires from one another.

The rest of the day is spent driving the car around the field in increasingly dangerous and imaginative ways. Dugan tries to spin in a circle and ends up getting caught in a ditch. Monty shocks himself several times trying to start it up, his curses getting increasingly filthy and British as he continues. Bucky’s boring and just goes around the perimeter. He’s missed the feeling of a car under his hands, pedals under his feet, like everything is his to control.

They tire out with the truck by dark, starting up a fire and having their rations. Bucky’s on first watch, and since it’s starting to get cold, he sets himself up in the truck. He’s got a good view of the field; Jimmy drove it to the edge of the woods before they turned it off. To pass the time, he pulls out one of his useless smokes. He won a pack of them off Monty in a game of cards, and he’d feel bad about taking them for no reason, but they give him something to do with his hands. Lately, he’s been worried that his hands are useless unless there’s a gun in them.

“Hey,” Steve knocks on the window of the passenger seat. Bucky nods at him, holding the smoke out his own window. Steve’s lungs won’t itch at the smoke any more, but it’s habit at this point to keep it away from him. “Can I join you?”

“I dunno, Cap. Do you mind returning to the scene of your failure?” Bucky cracks a grin at Steve’s rolling eyes.

“Fuck off,” he pulls open the passenger seat door and slides inside, closing it behind him. Bucky grins wider; Steve doesn’t curse as much anymore. It’s probably because he wants to stick to “regulations” in front of the group, but they’ve got the worst mouths Bucky’s heard. Coincidentally, the only person Steve also scolds for his language is Bucky, and while the righteous Christian look on his face when he says _Language_ is hilarious, it’s getting a bit irksome.

“The mouth on you,” Bucky tsks, because he can. “What would the army say if they knew their very own Captain America was breaking the rules?”

“COs are allowed to speak freely between one another,” Steve says primly. It’s a lie though; Steve’s got a tell when it comes to lies. His nose twitches just slightly, unnoticeable if you weren’t looking for it, but Bucky always is. Just another reason why he makes a good American symbol; always honest.

“Since when am I a CO?” Bucky asks instead of calling him out on it. He takes a deep drag of his smoke to keep from frowning.

“The men all know you’re in charge,” the punk rolls his eyes like Bucky’s the one being dense.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not the one with a “Captain” tacked onto my name.” Steve smiles that stupid earnest smile of his; another tell. This one means he’s about to say some really sappy shit and Bucky should escape before his teeth rot with the sweetness.

“Yeah, but you keep me in line, and therefore, the team.” Bucky snorts, snubbing out the cigarette halfway through and dropping it out the window.

“Still crazy, Rogers, guess the serum didn’t fix everything.” He nudges Steve’s shoulder lightly. For some reason, he’s always light with Steve’s new body in a way he never was with the fragile one. It’s like he thinks it’s a mirage; that if he taps Steve too hard or nudges him too forcefully, the image will break away and Steve will start gasping for breath again.

“No,” Steve says, too quietly. “Not everything.” The look in his eye gets a little too determined so Bucky clears his throat.

“Come on,” he shuffles in his seat, “I’ll teach you how to steal a car.” Steve stares at him a second too long before nodding. The next half hour is spent trying to get Steve to listen, perform, and do it again. By the end of it, Steve’s got it down pat, and Bucky is unreasonably proud of him. The half hour after that is spent with a joyride.

It’s so ridiculous. Here Bucky is, a damaged POW who rejoined the army because a skinny punk from Brooklyn told him to, and he’s spending his night in the middle of a field in Europe, joyriding with Captain America. He starts laughing at how bizarre his life is and Steve joins in because why not? Bucky doesn’t laugh nearly enough anymore, so hearing it makes Steve happy, and there they go. Two idiots from Brooklyn laughing their asses off at basically nothing.

“Alright,” Bucky says, panting a little as he comes down from the high. “I think that’s enough driving for one night.”

“Let’s lay down in the bed of the truck,” Steve suggests, the pieces of his laugh still broken up on his face. Bucky shrugs.

“Sure.” The both of them shuffle out of the truck, climbing into the truck’s bed, the leaves piled in there making it soft enough to lie in. They stare up at the sky, the stars twinkling in a way that makes them both homesick. Too much like the lights of the buildings back in Brooklyn. For a second, Steve feels so much smaller, like he and Bucky are in their shared bedroom again. It brings up a pang in his chest, remembering what he had then that he can’t now.

“Thanks for teaching me how to steal a car.” He whispers it like they used to all those years ago. Bucky smiles, but Steve can’t see it.

“Anytime, pal,” and it gets quiet again. Not completely silent; they are in a forest and their shared breathing provides enough sound. Bucky’s so used to focusing on Steve’s breathing, making sure it’s okay, that he doesn’t even think about it now. Steve just misses lying next to Bucky.

“Are we okay?” He asks. He doesn’t know if actually asking the question makes him brave or cowardly. Brave to speak the words neither of them have or cowardly to have to.

“Course, Stevie,” and Bucky’s voice is too heavy. He thinks he’s such a good liar, but not to Steve, never to Steve. “We’re always okay.” Steve swallows hard and hopes Bucky can’t hear it. Bucky can.

“I,” he starts and stops. He was never good with words like this. Give him an army to rouse, people to inspire, men to command, any day. But make him talk about his feelings? Might as well be speaking German. He tries to paint what he wants to say in his mind, he was always better with art than words. “I know we agreed that we can’t anymore, but just in case-”

“Don’t.” Bucky cuts him off, voice harsh and wet. Steve’s hurt because he doesn’t know. They never agreed to anything, neither of them. Bucky forced himself to give up what he knew he couldn’t have and Steve had to go along with it, no matter how much he didn’t want to. This was against both of their wills, but it needed to be done. “Please,” Bucky’s voice is softer this time, shakier too. “Just don’t.”

“I have to. You need to know.” Bucky shuts his eyes tight, blocking out the stars.

“I already do. I do.”

“Then let me tell you, please.” Several seconds filled with tension, heavier than anything Steve could lift. They drag on for what feels like hours, Steve holding his breath and Bucky wishing he wouldn’t. Steve not breathing just heightens Bucky’s panic. Finally, _finally_ , Bucky replies. It’s too dark to see Bucky nod, but Steve hears the leaves shift and takes it for the answer he wants. “I,” Steve swallows back the break in his voice, “I love you, Buck.”

The tears Bucky’s been fighting since that night (that awful, terrible night when he pushed Steve away) break through. They sting coldly on his cheeks and he revels in it, the pain. Pain he can take, physical pain is easy like that. This kind of hurt though, this devastating lasting twist of every one of his organs, this is excruciating.

“Stevie,” he says it like a prayer, though Bucky doesn’t know what he’s praying for. To make it home, to never make it out of Europe, for Steve to marry Peggy Carter, for Steve to come home with him, he has no idea. He does the only thing he can think of; he grabs Steve’s hand and squeezes it, harder than he’d ever think about doing before. Steve gasps, like it’s lighting up every nerve on his body, and Bucky would laugh, but he feels the same way. They haven’t touched like this since that night. When Steve desperately pressed his tear salted lips against Bucky’s in a failed attempt to stop him from saying those awful words.

“It’s true, Buck. I do, I do, and I always will.” It’s a proposal if Bucky’s ever heard one. With those I do’s, Steve’s stealing from the damn script. Bucky sucks in a quick breath, opens his eyes, and smiles at the stars, only slightly blurry through his tears.

“Me too, Stevie. Always.” Always.

Two boys from Brooklyn fall asleep in a rusty old truck bed, leaves as their mattress. They’re so different from those two kids who got into fights over anything. So different from the men who enlisted just months before. They’ve been hurt so much already, broken inside just small enough to hide but big enough to hurt. They have so much more to come. The world will try to tear them apart again and again, these two boys from Brooklyn who get homesick at the stars. They have no idea of what is to come.

But for tonight, they fall asleep smiling at stars on a pile of leaves. Not once do their hands break apart.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it! I had a really good time writing this one.


End file.
